


The Lonely Art of Self-Hatred

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Masochism, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:17:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	The Lonely Art of Self-Hatred

There is an agony in the man who stares down at his bruises and can attribute them to failure rather than valiance. A flaw in the human condition makes us treat these wounds like trophies from a battle; even if it were a fight lost, there the scars remain – not permanent, so the wound of defeat fades in time – a brazen reminder to all who gaze upon them that the wearer is tough. Resilient. I have seen horrors, the bruises say, and I have emerged triumphant; they have not beaten me yet for I am alive.

When Sherlock Holmes pulls back his clothing and stares at his bruises, they say to him: “You got what you wanted.”

There is an undertone. The sickness, the bitterness of disappointment he feels is unmerited.

If I got what I wanted, why do I not feel content.

For a genius, you don’t half ask yourself the most inane questions.

Sherlock’s job is a magnet for injury in itself. One could hardly count the possibilities the Consulting Detective has at his disposal: there’s all the inexplicable jumping over car bonnets that he does; dodging explosions; hauling himself across rooftops and ‘reasoning’ with criminals, to name just a few. He’s more than a little familiar with John’s _‘You know I worry about you’_ look that normally gets outings when he returns home after a long day’s… _deducing_ , as haggard as his perfect visage will let him be. Then there’s the unspoken offer, followed by the vocal plea to please just let him check Sherlock over, just to assuage his concern, please. Sherlock never lets him because he knows if John peels away the fine garments he’ll find more than just a few cuts and scrapes for inspection, things he can’t explain away without becoming very accomplished at lying to John and that’s not something he _ever_ wants to be.

He told himself he wouldn’t become ‘one of those’, either, and look where that got him.

 _It hurts because it’s nice because it hurts because it’s nice because it hurts because it’s nice because-_

It began as an experiment. Most things do. “Let’s just see what happens when we drop this bomb…” Sherlock is engaging in warfare with himself. Target acquired. Prepare force. And… detonate. Repeat, repeat, there’s fire all around, sir, the area is inflamed; should we continue the attack? I thought I hired you to obey orders. Do not back down until the target surrenders, do you understand? Do not back down!

To begin with, with arm and fist and reasonable force and the sheer psychotic ecstasy of new sensation, barrage time could last for up to thirty minutes. In the cold light of the next morning the ache takes hold and there is honestly nothing comparable to the _pain_ but the _pride_ you feel as you conceal but complain; blame the furniture, the door knob, blame the company you keep but never blame yourself.

 _It hurts because it’s nice because it hurts because it’s nice because it hurts because it’s nice because_ Sherlock Holmes gave up on believing in right and wrong many years ago.

\--

It has a name. A dirty, sleazy, filthy name that Sherlock refuses to acknowledge or attribute to himself. It is chains and restraints and hot iron brands and that is not Sherlock Holmes. To inform those that pry that all he needs is his own fist to have a good time conjures up enough deep sexual metaphors to pacify them, the infrequent and the imperceptive. If they used their eyes they’d notice how on Tuesday he winces when he reaches up but by Wednesday he performs the gesture with fluidity. Fridays he limps gently enough for none but he to notice.

The thought that gets him through the searing burn is that ~~it’s oh so fucking worth it~~ one day this may be unnecessary, one day perhaps he will find someone crazy enough to do it all for him. He fantasises about John raising his balled up fist, pulled away from but following the course of collision to his shoulder… but he’d never ask him. How would he ever? “John, just a question: would you ever consider beating me senseless so I can achieve non-sexual gratification?” How he ever expects a reply to the affirmative, he doesn’t know. Fantasy John says yes and they embrace with fingernails scratching down his back like a knife through meat. Real John sits and attempts the crossword with eyebrows furrowed in thought, eventually submitting to his inferior intelligence but not letting it bother him. One time Sherlock got so close to asking him the message is still saved in his drafts.

The riding crop was a personal compromise. To flog the corpses was a previously undiscovered distancing tool between inflicting and having it inflicted upon him; he longed to be the body on that morgue slab, lying still as the crop beat down perpetually, yes, again, again. He was the body. He felt each sting, each crack, oh, God, yes, again! Ten minutes on the cadaver punctuated by a thwack of the crop on his waiting thigh. No scars, no guilt, but pain.

Whispers paint him as a sadist; gossip has no tolerance for euphemism or the sparing of feeling. Of course he just seems like the type. To revel in the psychological torment of others is not far removed from physical assault, honestly; it’s in all of the fancy psych books. These are the same whisperers who will label him a psychopath when he tells them again and again he’s not, he’s not – do you not know anything, you educationally retarded cretins? They exchange glances and nod their heads imperceptibly enough for him to see.

Sometimes he delights in wondering what they’d say if they ever found out that oh, Sherlock Holmes is _right the little-_

Even in sport the term cuts.

\--

John. If we all have our flaws and I told you mine was self-abuse, would you try and understand? Would you be able to see that this does not make me dark or disturbed; the pleasure I get from the act is not for my own sexual gratification, I merely enjoy the sensation. I do not cut or slash at my wrists but instead I beat and pound at my flesh until it turns first red, then green or purple or the yellow of jaundice. I observe the wounds as I inflict in different methods and track the colours and the swelling. Is this wrong? Am I depraved for enjoying the sensation of fire in my legs and arms as I hurt myself, the ache of the bruises for days afterwards?

I do not consider myself thus but others do and this prevents me from being open with you. As I want to be. As I need to be.

Please, John. I have tried and still I try but I am not normal and I cannot be. Consider this a quirk of my personality, nothing more. This is not a condition or a disease. This is entertainment.

\--

If a man paints in his spare time for fun, he is considered a painter. If Sherlock Holmes punches himself in his spare time for fun, he is considered a madman.

If Sherlock Holmes beats himself until he cries and can’t distinguish the pain from the joy anymore, he does this in the dead of night by the light of his mobile phone. Society makes this clandestine, shameful, secret; if only others would accept him then perhaps he would be free but he is not and he is restrained. Therapists would conjure him a motive; they need one in order to diagnose, pigeonhole, categorise. Tell me all about your childhood and I’ll find something that has to be haunting you. Talk to me about your present situation and together we can imagine up a woe that _must_ be eating you. You do it for fun? Oh, you make me laugh! Sit on the chair and list your achievements so we can search for the failure that’s _got_ to be stalking you.

The only thing that drives him is the hatred of the deed. Sherlock may find instantaneous fun but the justification will only stretch so far. Why can’t he just be normal? Well, that’s another one of those silly questions, isn’t it? Don’t answer a question with a question. I’ll say whatever the fuck I want to a madman. But he isn’t a madman.

You punch yourself for fun and refuse to admit that? Oh, _dear_.

Sherlock wishes there were other ways but this is just part of him; he wishes it would go away but this is just part of him; he wishes that one day he could be able to walk into a table without the hiss of gratification but _this is just part of him and it’s not getting deleted any time soon_. It’s a slippery slope between self-indulgence and self-abhorrence; he found a way to traverse the void without sliding down to the latter until John arrived and hell began to fly skywards.

John the doctor. John the moral man. John the guiding light to his chasm of eternal depravity. John will save you if you only just let him.

But what if I don’t want to be saved.

You can’t have it both ways.

Choose pain, choose deception, choose the concealment. Choose the fire, choose being alive, choose the throbbing of true existence. Choose guilt.

Choose the admission that you have a problem and save yourself from yourself.

“It isn’t a fucking problem.” Sherlock chants to himself, fist raised, juddering slightly in anticipation as it hovers over his waiting thigh.

\--

John receives a phone call from the hospital six weeks later, approximately two minutes before a police car glides to a halt outside 221 Baker Street.  



End file.
